Exile
by Aromene
Summary: When Aragorn was a young man, he made a choice that would shape his future, but was it really the right decision, for the right reasons?


Title: Exile

Summary: Sometimes a seemingly simple choice can have an effect no one can imagine. And sometimes the things we do to ourselves can be the worst of all. When Aragorn was a young man, he made a choice that would shape his future; but was it really the right decision, for the right reasons?

Author's Note: I'm back, with another story inspired by a Heather Dale song. (See _The Kingsword_ and _As I Am_). This is just an inspiration though; no verses are included. Aragorn is a complex character, perhaps the most complex of all, and has long fascinated me. Why did he make the choices he did, and did he really believe he was doing the right thing? Did the love of one 'woman' destroy reason like it has for so many others? So here's my attempt at explaining something Tolkien only hints at in any detail. A missing part from the books, the movies, and my own thoughts. I make no pretense that this is anything like what Tolkien believed; it is only the ideas of a poor fan fiction writer who can't stand unanswered questions.

Further Note: This is one of those stories that started out as something and ended up as something else, completely beyond my control. And though I'm not entirely happy with the direction it went (Estel angst, what else?), try as I might I can't seem to change it. The muses have taken over.

………….

It was raining. He hated the rain. Especially when it was winter and accompanied by biting winds and bitter cold. The first drops had fallen only an hour before, but already he was soaked through, and starting to shiver.

He should have stopped to make camp when he first saw the darkening clouds, but he had decided to press on to Bree, only a few hours away. He would be there soon; already he has passed a few outlaying farms. But where his freezing and wet body told him to seek shelter at one of them, his mind was being more reasonable. Rangers were not welcome here.

Suddenly he broke through the trees; finding himself on the road. The man cursed himself for misjudging the distance, and not being more aware of his surroundings. It would not do to get himself attacked this close to town; he'd never live it down among his comrades. Or his brothers if they ever found out.

He was looking forward to the warmth of the Prancing Pony Inn and a mug of ale more than he remembered ever looking forward to anything.

His first expedition into the wilderness alone had not gone well. At only twenty-four summers the man was still young to his people, but also old enough to take up his responsibilities; some of which he was far more willing to take on than others.

Indeed, simply by being here, on this scouting trip, he was putting aside some rather important duties. But he had long ago decided he wanted nothing to do with them: ever.

He had chosen exile instead. And in the four years since he had left his home, carrying nothing more than a small pack, he had thrown himself into that exile indeed. Some would call it hiding; he knew a few of those some ones personally. But he had made his choice, for good or ill, and he would hold to it; not matter what anyone else thought.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, laughed without humor as he raised a hand to knock upon the gates of Bree. He had made his choice alright, though he had yet to meet a person who thought that choice good. But then, no one else was heir to the lost throne; and therefore not in the position he had found himself forced into four years prior. They couldn't understand what it was like.

And so Aragorn avoided people whenever possible; except the citizens of Bree and it's outlaying towns, who knew him only as 'Strider' and thought him reclusive and dangerous. They knew little of the fallen kingdoms, and cared less. Here there was no one to remind him to take up his duty and win his crown. No one to be disappointed in him. He loved it here.

"What do you want?" The gatekeeper huffed at him through the window in the gates.

"What I want is none of your business, but I'm on my way to the Pony, if that's good enough to allow me entry."

The old man huffed again, but he swung the gate-door open and allowed the Ranger to pass.

"You don't be causing any trouble, you hear me?"

Aragorn resisted the urge to laugh. He loved it here, but only when he wasn't interacting with the citizens.

"Not one bit. I swear."

He huffed again and disappeared into the guard house; pointedly ignoring Bree's new arrival.

Strider liked it best that way; being ignored. But he also like it better being ignored while he was sipping a mug of ale in a warm corner of the Pony.

Glad to be nearly out of the rain, he hurried down the street towards the inn. From the sounds of it, the common room was busy, but he hoped the inn was not. There were fewer travelers on the roads in recent years, but the Pony had the best reputation for accommodations in the region.

Butterbur was frantically running to and fro as always, but as always he noticed the new guest immediately.

"A moment, if you please!" He called and disappeared through the back doors. He was less than a moment in returning.

The innkeeper peered at Aragorn for a moment, before recognition dawned. "Ah, Strider, you'll be wanting a room I suppose? And dinner?"

"If you're not full Barliman?"

"Nay, not full. Never full these days. Nob! Nob!!" A hobbit appeared at his side, seemingly out of thin air. "You show this Ranger to a room, you hear? And bring him some food and ale too." And with that Butterbur was gone.

Nob glanced nervously at the tall man standing in front of him, but beckoned Aragorn down the hall to his room.

It was small and cozy, at the back of the Inn and on the ground floor. Dark, quiet, and blessedly dry.

"Supper sir?" Nob asked.

Aragorn nodded, but paid the halfling no more attention, for which Nob seemed grateful as he disappeared out the door.

The man was left in silence. Sighing in pleasure he stripped off his soaked cloak and tunic and hung them on the back of the chair beside the cold fireplace. Aragorn gave the empty space an annoyed looked; clearly fed up that the thing hadn't lit itself, instead of making him do the work. Sighing he threw a few logs into the fireplace, and managed to strike a spark with the flint on the third try. But the wood was dry and old, and by the time Nob returned with supper, Aragorn was feeling nearly warm again.

"Anything else you be wanting, sir?"

"No Nob, not till morning. I'll have breakfast at dawn. Dawn, understand?"

Quaking, Nob managed a nod before hastily exciting the room. Aragorn allowed himself a laugh, knowing scaring the poor hobbit had been cruel.

But his menacing demeanor was soon forgotten as he dug into the meal. He hadn't eaten a proper repast in over a week; not since he had left the main camp outside Fornost. The food was heavenly, and the ale was better.

Full, warm, and exhausted he lay down to sleep.

…………

He woke at dawn to the sound of a knock on the door. Groaning that he had overslept, he dragged himself from the bed to admit Nob.

The hobbit obviously considered 'Strider' less fearsome looking in the light of morning, especially since the Ranger was red-eyed and half asleep. He set the breakfast tray on the table, managed to get the fire going again in under five seconds, and then looked at Aragorn as if he wanted to say something he didn't think he should.

"What is it Master Hobbit?"

"'Tis not my place, sir, but it's only that…that…you don't look all that well sir. You look like my brother did last month after he was out in the rain all night. He got lost, see, and he couldn't find his way back through the forest to Bree. When dad found him in the morning he was right sick, he was. Nearly died the healer said. Not meaning to imply nothing, sir, only you look as bad as he did that morning."

Aragorn opened his mouth to object, and dissolved into coughing. Great, he thought, he _was_ sick.

"Can I get you hot water for a bath, sir? It may help. Or should I get a healer?"

Aragorn got a strange look on his face at the word 'healer', but it was gone as soon as Nob noticed it. "Hot water would be good."

"Yes, sir," the hobbit said, and left to do just that.

Aragorn sat down hard on the bed, and took stock of how he felt. Scratchy, dry throat; coughing; still feeling cold; skin warm; chest starting to hurt…oh wonderful. He was going to eat breakfast, have a warm bath, and then crawl into bed and pray to the Valar he was well by the next morning.

That decided he dug into the food, pleased that at least he was hungry. He was just finished up when another knock came upon the door, and Nob entered without waiting to be called. He carried a bucket of steaming water in each arm, and behind him came a young man carrying a wash tub. The stuff was deposited in the center of the room, near the fire, before the two disappeared to collect more water.

Aragorn wasted no time in pouring the two buckets into the tub, relishing the warmth they brought to the air. He threw another log on the fire, and nearly jumped when the door opened to admit Nob again. Aragorn berated himself, for he should have heard the hobbit approach, no matter how quiet he was being.

Nob added the two other buckets of water; another hot and one cold, to the bath.

"Nob, could you get me water for tea?"

"Yes, sir!" The hobbit said. "But don't you go letting that water get cold, sir."

Aragorn didn't plan to. As soon as the door was closed again, he dragged his breeches and shirt off, and sunk into the water. Oh, hot water was a gift from the Valar themselves.

Aragorn barely heard the knock that came a while later, and ignored Nob when he came into the room and left a pot of steaming water on the table. He was determined not to move until the bath water was stone cold.

But the tub was small, and rather uncomfortable, and Aragorn rose long before the water turned cool. Grabbing the towel that had been left, he dried himself hurriedly, for the room was not altogether warm. Pulling fresh clothing from his pack he dressed quickly. Still not warm, he pulled the bed blanket over his shoulders and set about making himself some tea. He had to empty most of the items from his pack before he found his bag of herbs; telling him it had been quite some time since he had last needed the use of it.

The smell of the combined herbs made him remember his childhood. He had often been sick when he was younger; usually from being caught out in the rain or cold. His father's teas had always tasted disgusting, but they had worked. Grimacing at the expected flavor, Aragorn took a cautious sip of the hot tea. He nearly chocked at the taste, but forced himself to continue drinking anyways; knowing he would feel better later.

He then climbed into bed, and within moment was asleep; dreaming that he was back in his bed in Rivendell, and his father was there taking care of him.

…………

By evening he was worse. He woke violently to a coughing fit, that once passed, left his chest throbbing and his throat stinging. He rang the bell by his door, and requested more hot water when Nob arrived a moment later. Forcing another cup of tea down his throat, he took to bed again. But he slept only a few short hours before the cough returned, and he could find no further rest.

It must have been loud enough to awaken someone, for it was not long before a knock came at the door, and Nob poked his head around the entrance. "Should I be getting a healer for you sir? You sound frightful bad."

"I'm afraid one of your healers can't do anything more for me than I'm already doing, Nob. 'Tis only a passing illness; I shall be well in a few days."

"Alright sir," though it was plain to see Nob thought otherwise. "I'll bring more water in the morning, and another bath too sir."

Aragorn was too tired to do anything but nod. But tired or no, he found no more rest that night. By the time the sun climbed over the horizon and began to lighten the room, Aragorn had concluded it was not a passing illness. He had been this sick once before, but he had been quite young, and remembered little of it: except the relentless coughing and chest pains. The herbs he carried would avail him little, and unless he did something soon, he was likely to get seriously worse. But to trust to Bree medicine was a little beyond his faith.

He made a painful decision. By horse he could reach Rivendell in a week, though he would be lucky to still be conscious by then. But Elrond could do for him better than any mortal healer in these parts. And perhaps he could happen upon athelas in the wilderness: it might be enough to get him to the mountains.

Decision made, he rose and dressed quickly; stuffing his meager supplies into his pack. He ran into Nob in the hallway.

"Oh, sir! Are you better today, sir? I was just bringing water for tea."

"Thank you Nob, but I'm leaving today." He dissolved into a violent coughing fit that left his leaning against the wall.

"Oh but that won't do at all, sir. You can barely stand. You should go back to bed, not out into the wild."

"Still, I am leaving. Is Butterbur around?"

"He in the common room, sir."

"Thank you Nob," Aragorn said, and strode in that direction.

"Strider!" Barliman cried, as he caught sight of the man. "Nob tells me you're ill. Should you be out of bed?"

"I must Butterbur. I've come to settle my account, and see if there isn't a horse in this town I can purchase. Any price will do; only a beast that is strong and can run."

"Well, I have one in my stables; got left here a few weeks ago, though I ain't figured out why. He's yours for double the room and board. I've got no use for him, and you look in dire need."

"My thanks, sir." Aragorn fished a few coins out of his pocket; far more than the thrice the price of room and board. Barliman looked ready to object, but obviously thought better of it.

"First stall on the left."

Aragorn nodded and forced himself to leave the inn without staggering on his feet. The horse was not overly large, but she was young and strong looking, and Aragorn hope she was fast. They had left a bridle on her, but no saddle.

"Been some time since last I rode bareback, girl, but I think I remember how."

Within minutes he had left the gates of Bree behind, and was racing as fast as the animal would go along the road east.

She was indeed fast; but even still, Aragorn was exhausted and barely conscious when he reached Weathertop days later. He was beginning to regret his decision immensely. It was better to die in a warm and comfortable inn with people around you, then alone in the wilderness.

But he was not yet ready to give up. At twenty-four summers he was much too young to die; for he still had many, many things to do. And with each hour that passed, as he fell further into the sickness that plagued him, his subconscious fought harder to live. He would not give up, not yet. He was meant for great things; and he had to live to see them.

…………..

Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond Half-elven, were riding back towards their home after nearly a month in the north. In the years since Aragorn had entered the lives of those in the valley of Imladris, the twins had seldom rode to battle. But Aragorn was gone now, off in the west with his people, which left the twins with no other responsibilities than to destroy the orcs that had brought destruction upon there family centuries before.

They were two days out from the valley, and in no rush to return. As ever, they were not expected back on a specific date, and knew a few days more in the wilds would not add worry to their already worrying father.

It was shortly before sundown when the elven ears of the twins caught the sound of a horse some way behind them on the road.

They were little concerned, for there were two of them, and only one horse that they could detect, but they moved to the side of the road into the lengthening shadows anyways.

A few moments later a grey horse appeared galloping down the road, carrying a hunched figure on her back. But the horse stopped of her own accord beside the twins' own mounts, and the figure on her back did not move.

Elladan glanced worriedly at his brother. He approached cautiously, but still the form did not move. Standing beside the horse, Elladan could see the figure's hood had slipped back and the dark hair was only partially obscuring the face. Looking closer he cried aloud in shock when he recognized the young man.

"'Tis Estel, Elrohir! Come, help me lift him down."

Together they pulled their brother from the horse and lay him down upon the soft grass beside the road. Brushing away the tangled brown hair, Elladan saw the pale face. "He is sick brother, a badly so. I wonder how long he has been out here on his own."

"However long, he was headed towards home; that much is obvious. He would not return willingly. Which tells me he is in desperate need. He is burning as hot as a fire," Elrohir pulled his hand back from the man's forehead as if he had indeed been burned.

Aragorn suddenly erupted into a coughing fit, and Elladan scrambled to take his young brother in his arms and hold him as his body was racked with painful coughs.

It lasted some minutes, but once through, Aragorn blinked against the growing darkness, and became aware he was being held in someone's arms.

"Ada?" he whispered; his voice hoarse from coughing.

"Nay, 'tis us little brother. But we will take you to Ada and he will make you better."

Elladan lifted his brother up gently onto his own horse, and mounted behind him.

"I do not know where our brother found you," Elrohir said to Aragorn's horse, "but we are thankful he did. Go now and return to your home, and to your proper master." The horse seemed to bow slightly to him, before turned and trotting off back the way she had come.

"Come toro nin," Elladan whispered to Aragorn, but the man was once more unconscious. "Let us race for home," he said to Elrohir.

The elven horses jumped forward at their masters' word; knowing they ran with all speed to save a life.

………….

He awoke to streaming sunlight and the chirping of birds. And a bed softer than anything he could recall sleeping on in quite some time.

Moaning from the pain of inactivity, he stretched, coming fully awake in a moment as he realized where he was.

"Good morning Aragorn." The voice was familiar, like a memory from his childhood that was still sharp and clear in his mind. It was a voice also, that he had feared to hear again; afraid of what words it would utter.

"Ada," the man whispered, as his eyes fell on his father.

Elrond of Rivendell was as tall and beautiful as he had always been, but his eyes were tired, and his face drawn from days of worry.

"How did I get here? No, I remember riding from Bree; but I cannot remember the journey."

"The twins found you just west of the ford and brought you the rest of the way. You were near death from sickness; and have lain unconscious these last two days. We feared for your life."

Aragorn beheld the exhaustion in his father's face, and was struck with a sudden and complete understanding. It was so clear it nearly stole his breath away.

When he had left Rivendell at the age of twenty, he had been running away; a fact he rarely admitted to himself. He a fled from his home, believing he had betrayed his family, especially his father. The last words they had exchanged had been less than kind, and Aragorn had wandered the wilderness ever since, believing the only father he had ever known hated him. But Aragorn knew now it was not so. Their parting had grieved Elrond even more than it had his son; another bitter parting after so much loss in Elrond's life.

"Ada," he whispered. "I am so very sorry. I should not have left like that; and I should never have stayed away so long. Please, forgive me?"

Elrond's face softened, and Aragorn swore he caught a tear leak from the corner of the half-elf's eye. But then strong arms were around him and Aragorn sobbed into the velvet of his father's robes.

"There is nothing for me to forgive. You did no wrong; it was I. I should never have let you go. I realized that afterwards, but it was already too late. I love you, ion nin, I always have." Elrond eased his son back down onto the pillows.

"But you must rest now. Ah," he held up a hand as Aragorn opened his mouth to protest. "You were gravely ill. You need rest, and food, if you can take it. I do not want to see you rise from this bed today, am I clear?"

He gave Aragorn one of his famous stares; but though it had given the man pause when he was young, now Aragorn simply smiled at it. "I have missed you Ada."

"And I you, tithen estel nin. I will have some broth sent to you; take what you can, and then you must rest. I will come to check on you later."

Aragorn settled back into the comfort of the bed as his father exited the room.

How wrong he had been! Long years of self-imposed exile, all for naught. He had been so incredibly _stupid._ Sighing in frustration with himself, Aragorn let sleep wash over him and soon sunk into the blessed oblivion of healing rest, knowing he was safe.

He was home.

…………….

A month later, Aragorn rode out from Rivendell with his brothers to return to the Rangers. But he went with his father's blessing and love.

His exile was over; Aragorn was now willing to do what he could for his people, but he knew it would be long years before his time would come. Until then, he would learn as much as he could about the lands and people of Middle-earth.

He did not stay long in the North however. That spring he left the company of his people, and after a brief stop in Rivendell, he crossed the mountains and journeyed south. By that fall he had come to the lands of the Rohirrim, and entered the service of Thengel, King of Rohan.


End file.
